It's All Happening Again
by little Alex
Summary: Mulder recalls and angsts, as he usually does. Slash.


It's All Happening Again

Disclaimer: None of them are mine, but CC's, 1013's, and 20th Century Fox's, blah, blah, blah.

Feedback: You kidding? I live for this stuff.

Spoiler: RatB; is that still a spoiler?

Summary: Mulder's first person p.o.v., somewhat addressed to Scully. Bold words are for emphasis, and words in italics are thoughts from that other part of Mulder's brain. Yes, he's talking to himself. Are you actually surprised?

Personal Notes: Extreme gratitude to Barbara Webb, CW, and Carol for beta-reading

*****

**It's All Happening Again**   
by [little Alex][1]   
October 1999 

*****

> It's all happening again. 
> 
> I sit on the floor, looking at the closed door, where Krycek -- _Alex!_ -- has just made his exit, and that's the only thought in my head. My fingers still around the gun, I lift my hand to examine the weapon. Funny that a few minutes of conversation can add so many pounds to the gun. Since neither of us has used it, though he might as well had, it's still fully loaded. I'd know; it's my gun, after all. My other hand seeking support on the sofa, I stand up and put the gun back onto the coffee table. 
> 
> I'm not going to touch the corner of my mouth. I'm not going to press the heel of my palm against my cheek and wish that he has kissed closer. I'm not going to find a Kleenex and wipe off the kiss. And I'm especially not going to run into the bathroom and wash off the faint smell of his skin.
> 
> I won't do any of these things because they'll be equally useless. Wishing that he'd touched his mouth onto mine won't make his earlier kisses -- _rain of kisses, shower of kisses; on your mouth, on your forehead, on your chest, on your navel_ -- any more vivid, and no amount of water can wash away the memories of his musk on me. Sometimes, my faithful memory is the best and worst thing that ever happened to me.
> 
> I hate my memory; how perfectly it continually renders all the events in my life. Every single detail, mundane -- _the slight thuds of pencils as they hit the office ceiling_ -- or important, from the day that Samantha disappeared from my childhood to the day he -- _and we all know which he we're talking about now, don't we?_ -- disappeared from my bed, the faint smell of burnt Morleys butts still weaving around my nostrils, is contained in this brain of mine.
> 
> Please, can I for one second, only one second, forget every moment of my life? Forget about my father's very probable involvement in the abduction of his own daughter. Forget about my mother's mysterious connection to the cancer bastard. Forget about the connection between that bastard and the man I lov-- I obsess on. Forget about his involvement in the death of my father or Melissa Scully.
> 
> _Your beautiful Scully, what will she think about this? What will she **do**? Can you give her up? Her loyalty despite her skepticism and sharp intelligence, her rational 'faith' in science with her equally 'irrational' faith in her Catholic God? Her friendship? Her **love**? Can you? Would you? Do you truly want to forget everything? Even her?_
> 
> Forget everything. Forget that I've cost him his arm -- _the horror, the pain of it. If you've trusted him, if you've only trusted him. That muscular arm, its solid strength around you, with the tempting curve of its biceps to the agile fingers, dancing on your skin, is forever lost because of you. You!_ -- his left arm. Forget that I've ever grown up. Forget the past twenty-five years. And yes, even forget you, Scully, my partner in everything except blood, painful as it will be. But would it be painful? I wouldn't have known you in the first place. _Can you really bear that? Never having known her?_ No, I can't forget, and not for you. Oh, no, not for you. Forgive me, Scully, please forgive me. You ask for absolution from your priest, and I can only ask absolution from you and you alone. 
> 
> I want to remember every single part of my life, every second of every hour. From the first few months we spent together during our budding relationship, when he was still the green agent, to the weeks in Tunguska -- _you screamed, you yelled, you threatened, and you begged. But you idiotically did it all to "Krycek." **Krycek**. Of course it never had any effect. And yet yet one cracked moan of "Alex" brought back all the tenderness that you thought you've lost when he became the rat_ -- I want to remember every torturous minute of my life.
> 
> Is want the accurate word? No, I **need** to remember, for without his image haunting my mind, my life is, is... But he's impossible to forget now, isn't he? Every time it might finally start happening, every time that I can wake up without dreams upon dreams of his mouth on me, his cock in me -- _your cock in **him**, fucking him raw or making love to him, always driving the both of you to pleasure beyond words. Coming inside him, marking him, knowing that you've taken his virgin ass_ -- he casually saunters back into my life as if our relationship has remained whole and untainted in ways that he hasn't.
> 
> Ignorance is bliss. Ignorance about the intricate conspiracies of our government, about the signs of the extraterrestrials, about their invasion, and their plans to colonize our world. Ignorance is oblivion. And of course, I only need his little kiss on the cheek, the salt of his sweat pressed almost against my mouth, to be convinced yet again of my faith in the conspiracies, the alien presence: my whole adult life.
> 
> I want him; I need him; I crave him. My heart belonged to the search for Truth, for Samantha; and to you, Sc-- Dana. Can I call you Dana? Sorry that I made you call me Mulder. I didn't know then how nice the word Fox could sound when said in love. But my heart; oh, it only needed to see him to fly away into his hands. Of course, being the kind man that he is, he gave it back to you and my older passions. Do you know that you still have my heart? From that first moment you stepped into our basement office, it was yours. But you didn't want it then, and you don't want it now. And then... and then he noticed my soul, stole it, and kept it for himself. He owns it now, my soul. No, he **is** my soul. And I can never forget him.
> 
> Every feverish kiss of his has been branded onto my skin. The bite marks might as well have been scars. Sprinkled all over my mouth is the slightly salty taste of him. The bitter yet lightly sweet spice of his come still lingers at the tip of my tongue. _And people wonder why you like sunflower seeds._ All the murmurs of "I love you" against my ear when he was half-asleep feel like they have been said only minutes ago. The very feel of him carved onto my heart and engraved onto my bones: I can finally understand your religious faith. I still don't believe in it, but I understand thoroughly the concept of guilt, for Samantha and for him. Yet without remorse, what is guilt? The priest cannot bless a sinner when they both know completely well that the sinner will continue his behavior.
> 
> In the classic pose, I kneel down and pray; not to an uncaring and most probably non-existent God, but to the two most important people in my life. Dana, forgive me this one failure and fault that I'll never try to correct. Alex, come back and let me commit all of you into my memory once again. Don't leave me here, alone in my apartment, because I need you, for my-- our quest and myself. No, I not only need you. For the first time and forever thereafter, Alex, I love you. Please never leave me again.
> 
> _~~finis~~_

   [1]: mailto:litalex@yahoo.com



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